


Too Loud

by Anzieizna



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: I know shocking, Other, PTSD, and tucker is just a rad guy, as he does, but it's more platonic, but yeah, especially about allison, helping wash out, i think that's it lol, ptsd wash, this is basically that, tuckington if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-02 03:55:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19191397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anzieizna/pseuds/Anzieizna
Summary: But don’t say goodbye.Wash felt himself flinch hard at those words. The voice was now booming and crystal clear, almost yelling but then the man reminded himself of the volume-rule. Still, the voice rung over and over in his mind as he felt himself tense, his body boiling.I hate goodbyes.Wash sprung out of bed.OR:Wash gets up in the middle of the night because he can't forget.





	Too Loud

Wash was tired.

His limbs ached from running all day and his throat felt dry from all the shouting that had taken place. The soldiers weren’t bad – they just weren’t good enough. If Wash was going to try and get them to basic athleticism, he would have to do a lot of training.

He had done so all day, not taking a moment to stop and pause and relax for a bit. There was a war going on. There was no time to relax.

So, yes, Wash was tired. In both the physical sense as well as the mental sense. Tired of running drills and having to yell at men and women who didn’t do as they were told, tired that the ending of this _‘planet vs. evil asshole’_ war seemed billions of years away. Wash couldn’t wait until the second his head hit the soft pillow on him warm but stiff bed, until he could close his eyes and get some rest until the next day.

But Wash couldn’t sleep.

By this point the former Freelancer was confused as to why he thought this night would be any different. He always did this, think that that day would finally be the night he would manage to keep the memories away from him and see nothing but darkness when he closed his eyes.

But, of course, it didn’t work like that. Not for him.

Whenever Wash closed his eyes, he only saw the soft image on smooth skin, light freckles and blonde hair. He could hear a voice, affectionate and fond yet at the same time holding a sense of respect that would keep people away. He could feel the pain of grief and heart break, he could remember the way his limbs felt like being torn apart and his throat shattering in several small pieces. 

_Don’t make me hurt you._

He stared up at the stone ceiling of his room, trying to remind himself that he was here, on Chorus, with the Reds and the Blues, with Carolina only a few halls away. With Project Freelancer destroyed and far behind him.

It was better now. Not good. Fuck no, nowhere near good. He still woke up screaming and crying in the middle of the night – if he ever got to sleep in the first place – more often than not, and even if he didn’t it usually meant he’d be distant and cold towards everyone else. It was like he was back again, not able to trust the people he once thought were friends in fear of revealing something or not knowing what they already knew. It was a stupid thought, of course. All his friends here knew what happened to him, to a certain degree, and they weren’t going to do anything to him. Still, he could never turn around a corner without checking behind him. He could never not question the things people told him. The worst part was that he knew there was no logic behind it – he knew that he was wasting energy being paranoid like that. But his brain didn’t listen to him. It ignored him and went on its own path, apparently deciding that every person was a traitor in disguise.

Sometimes his memories got lost again. In those phases, he lost track of what was real and what wasn’t. Well, no, that wasn’t the right word for it. After all, it was all real. It all really happened. The torture, the heart break, the confusion. Wash just sometimes forgot what memories belonged to him. What memories were his and what the Epsilon AI left behind. He got muddled up every now and then, not able to recognise who a person was because they hadn’t existed back then. Or seeing someone and almost having a break down because _wHat tHE fuck thEY’rE supPOSED to Be deAd wHAT- hOw- whEN- BUt- I doN’T kn…_

Wash took a breath.

He willed his mind to become blank. To give him the peace he more than fought for. He stared at the ceiling, forcing himself to breathe even if it didn’t feel natural. The man just wanted to close him eyes and curl up, to never leave the bed and bury himself in his misery and dismay.

_Put that thing down._

He paused for a moment. Where was that voice coming from? Wash wanted to lift his head, to glance around the room, but he knew she wasn’t there. He didn’t want to get his hopes up. It was just inside his own head, an echoing voice that made his entire body tense.

_You’re gonna make me late._

The voice was becoming louder. Clearer. It was starting to sound like it had before, before all this happened, before the project, before he lost Allis-

Wash shook his head roughly.

He didn’t lose anyone. Nobody but the Freelancers, trampled in the heavy and dark steps of the Project that was so secretive even its agents didn’t know the real, disgusting, selfish reason it existed. But those losses were a long time ago. A few years, at the least. Wash refused to let himself get close to anyone else since then. His downfall had come from trusting people too easily, and look where that had gotten him.

The solider shifted in his bed, turning onto his side as he tried to sink further into the mattress. His eyes unwillingly landed on the door, and almost on instinct he considered the idea of going out for a quick night jog to help clear his head. Not that it ever actually did so.

But no, he promised he’d try and stay in his room tonight. And this time he actually wanted to complete his goal, no matter how hard it was for him.

The former Freelancer moved to his back again, trying to trace the cracks in the ceiling to occupy his mind. He had seen Simmons do that a few times, whenever he was trying to avoid an anxiety or panic attack. The maroon soldier would try and follow a pattern. Wash figured it was some ‘weird nerd technique’, as the man’s orange teammate called it, but it was worth a try.

Then again, Wash whispered to himself in his own mind – he did that a lot these days, and he came across something weird: the voice inside your mind could never, and would never, change volume. No matter if it was screaming of rasping, it stayed the same. It reminded him of Project Freelancer far too much; always there, even if it was invisible. The Project got its claws on Washington, and now he could never get rid of it -, Simmons had Grif. Grif, who was always there to comfort the soldier whenever he had a breakdown or was simply freaking out despite his laziness. Grif, who would even sacrifice his precious Oreos if it meant snapping Simmons back to reality.

Wash didn’t have anyone like that. He hadn’t allowed himself that comfort.

He was becoming fidgety again. The technique didn’t work, not that he expected it to. Wash sometimes thought nothing could get him out of this doom. Out of this bottomless, dark abyss that seemed to suck him in, small pieces every day.

_But don’t say goodbye._

Wash felt himself flinch hard at those words. The voice was now booming and crystal clear, almost yelling but then the man reminded himself of the volume-rule. Still, the voice rung over and over in his mind as he felt himself tense, his body boiling.

_I hate goodbyes._

Wash sprung out of bed. He quickly got dressed into civvies and opened the door. His clothes were simple and dark, nothing that drew attention as he made his way through the corridors. They were dark. They always were. But now they seemed extra gloomy. Like every corner hid something. Like if he took one wrong step he would fall and not be able to recover. He kept walking.

Short and routine steps helped calm his mind. Soon there were no voices in his head. Only quiet, distant murmurs he did his best to ignore. Which wasn’t exactly easy. Still, Wash managed to make it to the common room without much fuss. It was a dark, plain room with only a few tables and seating in it.

Wash entered the room. Then he paused. He felt his eyebrow lift as he stared at the figure just before a window, long, dark beads of hair falling across someone’s back. Their shirt was a light blue... or turquois. Or cyan. Or teal. Or aqua. It didn’t really matter. Either way, he was staring at the dark sky with a bored expression on his face. As if he was waiting.

Wash cleared his throat. Tucker’s head whipped around and he looked Wash up and down, eyes somewhat disapproving as they landed just below Wash’s eyes. He resisted the urge to laugh bitterly. Now was not the time.

“What are you doing out here?” He asked instead.

Tucker gave a short snort and angled his eyebrows. “Enjoying the freezing night by the mostly broken window. I was waiting for you, Wash,” he added when the former Freelancer didn’t respond.

“Waiting for me?” He echoed. Confusion was clear in his voice and his posture. 

Tucker rolled his eyes for probably the fifth time and jumped off the window ledge where he was slouching. “Do you actually think you manage to get up without waking anyone? That nobody knows of your ‘midnight exercise’?”

Wash guessed by his tone the answer was no. “Sorry,” he mumbled under his breath. This was reminding him of the Project. Back when he was the joke of the group. When he was the one who would always mess everything up. This wasn’t helping. At all.

Tucker paused for a moment, as if rethinking his thoughts. “No need,” he said finally, something behind his voice Wash couldn’t recognise. “I couldn’t get to sleep anyway, so…”

There was a silence between them. Wash glanced out through the window. It would be dark and silent out there. Not exactly the best if he wanted to keep his mind too busy to think. He dragged his eyes back to Tucker. Maybe company would help him? Tucker would probably be best for that job. The guy could go on talking forever. It was usually about small, mindless things. Well, to everyone apart from Tucker. Complaining about sniper rifles. About how there are a thousand names for a single colour. About how the tanks in this place made it impossible to pick up chicks.

Still, it was better than nothing.

Wash opened his mouth. No words came out. He hesitated, finding the words had escaped from his mouth. Suddenly there was a flash of colour in the corner of his eye and he glanced up, body stiff and prepared. It was just Tucker walking around the room.

“Where are you going?” Wash asked, trying not to let any slip of hope or disappointment enter his voice.

Tucker paused half way through the door, leaning back against it as he faced Wash again. “I’m going with you.” Wash blinked. “I’m gonna go with you. So, you know, you’re not alone or anything. So you have company. So you don’t do anything stupid.”

Wash stared at his teammate for a second, going over the words.

He realised, as he stared at the waiting expression of Tucker’s face, that he had lied. He hadn’t allowed himself to make friends. But the Reds and Blues just… inserted themselves into his life. Without his consent. Without his permission. And, for some reason, Wash didn’t try to push them out. He felt glad. As Wash looked at Tucker longer, he realised that even if he had lost all his Freelancer friends, even if he lost the ability to trust so easily, even if he lost millions of nights of peaceful sleeps, he still had people he cared about. And people that cared about him.

It took all his self-control to fightback the sloppy smile that wanted to creep onto his face.

“Thanks,” he said, not only to Tucker, but for now it was just Tucker there. And that was enough.


End file.
